But this is real.
My head is throbbing with a sickly ache, my mouth tastes putrid, sour, like I can taste my own bloody heart. My knuckles burn where they hit and hit and hit that man again and again.
I’m beyond disgusted with myself.
That feeling hurts most of all.
And I’m terrified to open my eyes.
If I keep them closed, I’ll never have to face up to anything.
But the images come slamming back into me, reminding me that this side of me is never going away. What’s done is done and I did it in front of the woman I love.
“Hey,” I hear her voice and it sounds like an angel, pure and light and the opposite of me. “Hey,” she says again, her soft hand on my arm, shaking me. “I would let you sleep but I know you have practice in an hour.”
Fuck.
Fuck.
Practice.
God I am such a fucking wanker.
I slowly open my eyes, the light causing mini explosions deep inside my head. I see Kayla peering over me. Her eyes are puffy and she looks tired. Beautiful, still, but it hurts to know that I’m probably the cause of a restless night, of terror and sorrow.
I lick my lips and try to speak but I can’t. No words come.
“Hey,” she says again, gently touching my cheekbone. Somehow she’s staring at me like she still likes me. I don’t see how that’s possible. She’s finally seen what I’m like. I’m surprised she’s even here at all.
I attempt to clear my throat. “I’m sorry,” I croak, staring at her imploringly, wishing I could open up my chest so she can see how sorry I am. My heart feels damp, waterlogged.
“It’s fine, I get it,” she says.
I shake my head, even though it makes my brain feel like it’s caving in. “You shouldn’t get it. There’s no excuse. I’m just…I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.”
“Well you were drunk,” she says.
I close my eyes, rubbing at my forehead. The god damn shame is like an anvil on my chest and I can’t shake it. And I shouldn’t. “I was drunk, I know, and I shouldn’t have been.”
“But that guy was being an asshole. He was asking for it. He wanted you to fight him.”
“I know. I know and I was trying not to.” I give her a pained look. “But then he called you that name and I just…I couldn’t let it slide. I’m sorry but my tolerance for racist fuckheads is lower than my tolerance for men who disrespect my woman. I snapped.” I suck in my breath. “I just fucking snapped.”
“I know,” she says soothingly but I don’t want her to be soothing. Because it’s not okay. It’s never okay. I don’t deserve to be soothed right now.
I close my eyes for a moment. “And I shouldn’t have snapped. I should have walked away. I should have never been there to begin with. I don’t know what happened, it was all fine one moment and the next…I was punching a bag of blood.”
She grimaces at that and I immediately regret my words.
“Sorry,” I tell her quickly. “I’m just…it won’t happen again.”
“Has it happened before?” she asks cautiously. “Because Thierry made it seem like you’d been in trouble with the police before.”